


Who's Harry?

by jacktheminatureslayer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Agent!Louis, M/M, Photographer!Liam, Post-it Notes, Workaholic, famous!zayn, learning the wrong name, mentions of insomnia, talking to plants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:30:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacktheminatureslayer/pseuds/jacktheminatureslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“ARCHIE!” I shout and hang up mid-sentence. I wheel my chair to my potted friend and pull the note off. </p><p>“What’s it say, Lou?” Zayn asks me, mouth full of chocolate.</p><p>Erm. Well this can’t be right. “I think Archie just hit on me…?” I reply.</p><p>Zayn grumbles, but crosses the room and yanks the note from my hand. “I hope you’re happy,” he reads. “P.S. I don’t mind biting.”</p><p>AU-Louis Tomlinson is the agent to an international pop-sensation and is in need of a new assistant. Unfortunately, Louis is also bad with names.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gary Styles

“I’m looking for a Gary?” I tell the receptionist. Perrie turns away and looks through her files on the desk. She’s even less organized than me, and that’s quite the feat. I don’t even know why we keep her around.

Perrie turns back around with a file and a mug of tea, freshly brewed. “I think you mean Harry, babe. Gemma’s younger brother?” she says. That’s why she’s here. She’s brilliant. I wouldn’t tell her that, of course.

I grab the file and tea from her and groan into the mug. It’s probably likely that tea runs through my bloodstream. In fact, when someone out there finally gets a hold of proper science, I want an exchange. No more of this “atoms and space” nonsense. We need some direction in the scientific community. A proper leader guiding these blokes to make useful things. Things like tea-blood. Tea-blood is bloody brilliant.

“You’re welcome,” Perrie says while I smirk at my own joke. _Tea-blood is bloody brilliant_. I need to write that down.

Gemma Styles and I used to work together until she took a promotion. Now she’s working under Ed Sheeran’s people while I’ve been left with an assistant position to fill. Due to some “favour” I owe her (“Remember April 9th, Louis? You owe me your life after that night.”), I’ve agreed to give her baby brother an interview. Well, that and the fact that the last few interviews I’ve conducted have been incredibly useless.

“Oh and Louis, Zayn told me to tell you that he’s not doing the Norton interview until you tell him that his, and I quote, ‘arse looks good in his trousers’” Perrie says with a quirk of her eyebrow.

I drop Gary’s folder on the floor in fake surprise. “Sexual harassment is not a joke, Zayn!” I shout at no one in particular. After a few moments, I drop down and grab the folder again, sending a wink at Perrie before disappearing into my office.

 _It’s not much_. That’s what Zayn’s management told me when I first took the position and was shown my office. I was just happy to get away from the previous diva I had to bend over backwards for at the time, but this office sealed the deal. The size isn’t massive, but there’s a window that looks out into the London streets. My previous office was nothing more than the size of a closet, really. I remember joking with my mum that “I wasn’t expecting to be put back in the closet after my awkward teenage years, but I guess Aiden Grimshaw has other plans.”

Just thinking his name sends shivers down my spine. Aiden was incredibly difficult to work with and he knew it. We didn’t get along from the first conversation on, but I honestly felt trapped in the position. Everything I did for the bloke was not good enough. From scheduling interviews to picking out designers, he wasn’t happy. I was miserable. Luckily the rising music artist, Zayn Malik needed his own agent and I jumped at it as soon as I could. I didn’t even know at the time Simon suggested the position that I would be working for my best mate.

My mobile phone begins to chirp and I jump at the sound. Speak of the devil. Grumbling, I toss the file on my desk and slide my phone out of the back of my trousers. I’m wearing a pair of trousers that hugs a little too tight today. “Hey tosser, I’m too busy to deal with your mood swings today. Go bother one of your famous friends with this rubbish.”

“Too busy doing what? Trying to squeeze into even tighter trousers?” the smooth voice of Zayn Malik replies bluntly.

I frown and pick at my trousers a bit. “Sod off, my arse looks a million times better than yours does at the moment.”

There’s a moment of silence before Zayn curses and says, “Take it back.”

I sigh and step over the piles of crumpled paper before reaching my desk, sitting down, and throwing my feet up on the scratchless surface. With a quick jerk of my heel, the mouse resting beside my foot moves and the computer buzzes to life. Previous news articles I was reading this morning are still dominating the screen.

“I can’t take back what’s true,” I reply before taking another swig of my tea. Mmmmm….tea. Tea doesn’t complain about it’s own arse. Tea doesn’t have an arse. Why the hell is that? Science, get your fucking head out of your arse and work on the real issues of this world! “We both know your massive head makes up for your lack of a rump, so get over yourself before I start a rumour that you piss your bed,” I conclude.

“You’re the worst,” he hisses.

“You love me.”

“Nope.”

I huff, “Well, you may not love me, but you’ve got to love my arse.”

He hangs up and I toss my phone on the desk, not the least bit surprised. You see, when I mentioned that Zayn and I got along quickly, I mean really quickly. Like, my second day of work we already had inside jokes involving penises and seagulls. Soon Zayn became a huge deal, his fanbase exploded after he bought his own mother a house (I didn’t cry when it happened. Nope, not once) and briefly dated Emma Watson (Loved her, but Zayn couldn’t do the distance thing).

With his success came the death of me. Not really, obviously, but the workload was massive. Simon made me interview and hire an assistant to handle the smaller things and that’s where Gemma came in. Cue a work relationship of six months (including a very embarrassing April night) until she got her degree and moved on up in the public relations field of work. She was fantastic though, and these people I’ve been interviewing really don’t compare.

“Louis, Simon’s on line five.” Perrie’s voice makes me jump and I nearly slam my face against my own desk. I wait patiently for the series of curse words rambling out of my mouth to let up before picking up my office phone and answering Simon’s call.

“You’ve got Louis ‘the Tommo’ Tomlinson on the line. Also known as the best agent in the world. Feel free to throw more money his way so that he can finally afford that lamborghini that matches his eyes,” I bark into the phone.

An irritated (but slightly amused, because, come on, I’m a charmer) Simon drones on the other end, “Oh you mean the same Louis Tomlinson that’s easily replaceable, but I’m too lazy to properly get a new bloke?”

I scoff into my phone, but he ignores it and continues, “I was just calling to check in. I haven’t seen any scandals, but it is only ten.”

“Just checking in? Awww, I didn’t know you missed me so much,” I coo. There’s a disgusted sound and I laugh before saying, “No, no new scandals. Well, the usual ‘Zayn’s been spotted with a new bird’ rubbish, but nothing massive.”

Simon makes a sound of content. “Good, yes. Is he still seeing that boy? Jason? Geoff?”

“Are you really calling to talk to me about Zayn’s sex life, because I really don’t want to toss up my breakfast on my shiny desk,” I complain.

Perrie peers into my office and wrinkles her nose at the mess of papers on the floor from last night. My attempts of working out how to do the workload without hiring a new assistant. Of course nothing worked out. I look at her pointedly, wondering why she’s interrupting this important phone call (“Why would I care to know Zayn’s sex life! It’s bad enough that you complain about your one-night stands. I don’t want to hear about how massive the bloke’s cock is, Louis, you hear me?!”).

“Gemma’s little brother is waiting in the lobby for you to interview,” she says.

Oh right, the Gary kid. “Send him in,” I tell her. “Zayn’s still seeing Matt, yes,” I tell the flustered man on the phone.

“Management just wants to know how serious it is,” he replies. I bite my tongue to hold out on the massive groan itching to come out of my throat.

Pinching the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger, I turn around in my desk chair, back to the door and face against the wall, before asking, “Why don’t they call up Zayn and ask him themselves?” The weak and pathetic group of spineless bananas. Bananas? Where did that come from? Great, now I’m hungry _and_ pissed.

Simon sighs, this is an argument we have all the time. When they (management) wanted to know if Zayn was bisexual because he literally shoved his tongue down anyone’s throat (he is), when they wanted Zayn to stop getting tattoos (he won’t), when they wanted Zayn’s twitter password after his fiftieth tweet about how great the Avengers movie was (they deleted forty-nine of those), they went to Simon who came to me. They used to ask me, but they weren’t too fond about being told to 'fuck off.'

“Just ask him if he’s dating the kid or not, Tommo,” Simon says with a tone of finality and hanging up. He is my boss, after all.

After hearing the click of his line ending, I let out a massive sigh and lean forward in my chair to pound my head against the wall behind my desk.

The last thing I want to do is ask Zayn about his dating life. Despite his image of, “brooding, troubled adult popstar womanizer” he’s really the hopeless romantic. I don’t really want to sit through a half-hour of his, “but does he like me, or does he _like_ like me, Lou? He won’t text me back.” I mean, I love the guy, but emotions and relationships aren’t really in my job description.

I groan and continue to hit my head against the wall. Yeah, yeah, okay. Listening and giving advice is part of my responsibility as a best mate. Kill me, okay? Wait, hold off on killing me. I want to hold out for the tea-blood thing first.

“Erm, do you want to reschedule the interview?” a low voice interrupts my personal hell.

Surprised (and frankly embarrassed), I pull up from the wall and swing around to face my visitor. In the split-second that my chair rotates, I decide to pretend like I wasn’t caught in the act of self-pitying. “Gary Styles! To what do I owe this pleasure?” I boom and freeze.

Wow, sooooooo….this doesn’t look like some booger-picking little brother. This guy is _fit_. Oh, and he’s worried, why is he worried? Maybe because I was pounding my own head against the wall? Yeah, probably. His legs are folded up beneath his chair, his toes against the floor (not really a way normal people sit). He has impossibly tight black jeans on (trust me, I know tight) and his button up white shirt is opened enough to air out his pointy shoulder blades (kill me).

His worried face is what brings me back to earth. There’s a bit of Gemma there, which is actually quite soothing. His brown hair, however, is styled up in a quiff, tendrils falling against his neck and ears that sort of curl. My eyes travel from his green eyes downwards and get distracted by his pink lips moving. Oh shit, he’s saying things. Pay attention, Tommo!

“--and I don’t really mind rescheduling if you need to.” I catch the end of his statement.

And let you leave? Nah son, I’m keeping you around. “No really, Gary, let’s do this interview,” I tell him before looking away from his fantasy inducing self to focus on his file Perrie gave me a while ago.

Gibberish. Used to work at a bakery. More gibberish. Going into communications at the local uni. Even more gibberish….ah, there it is. His experience includes helping his sister. Is that it? I mean, he is fit, but I don’t usually hire twenty year olds with nothing to go on. Gemma had been doing this stuff for about as long as I had at the time I hired her. “Well, you don’t have a lot of experience,” I tell him truthfully. I should have looked at his file before so that I didn't waste his money and time coming in here.

He grimaces and scratches the back of his neck. “No, I don’t have proper experience that I can put on paper, but I have been helping Gemma since she first started,” he tries to defend himself.

I try to keep the look of pity from my face while I clear my throat. Why not get to know him a little more before turning him down? “Okay, how about you tell me what to expect from this job.”

“Well, I expect to be working with people, both stubborn and easy. We’re kind of the direct supervisor over Zayn Malik, so everything concerning him goes through us. I guess that also means that I’d end up doing the chores like coffee runs, wardrobe malfunctions, and stuff…” he kind of trails off.

I look up from his file and frown. “That’s kind of the gist of it, yeah.”

Garymimics my frown and shuffles his feet. He can probably tell that this interview isn’t going in his favour. Maybe it’s the trauma from pounding my head, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s incredibly good-looking that I add, “We also make sure that Zayn feels good about his tiny arse. Confidence is key, in regards to the rump.”

Gary’s face immediately brightens and he barks a laughter. Oh hey, he’s got Gemma’s dimples! The combination of his laughter and dimples is all I need to continue. “Yeah, sometimes he calls me up before a concert just so that I can reassure him that his voice makes up for his lack of gluteus maximus,” I joke.

He leans forward and slaps his knee, his cackles transcending into a fit of giggles. How he manages to make this all look sexy is beyond me, but I smile as I watch him. Between me watching Gary choke himself on his own laughter and telling him more funny things, Zayn bursts into my office. He pauses at the threshold with a frown before shaking his head and barging into my personal space (he literally marches up and sits on my lap).

“Did you see the interview?” Zayn asks my collarbone after ducking his head into my shoulder.

I stroke his back soothingly. “No, popstar, what happened?”

He huffs and ignores the question. “It’s all because you wouldn’t double check my rump for attractiveness, Lou.”

Gary’s face transitions from dazed (when Zayn came in. He is an international popstar, after all), to worried (when he climbed into my lap like a freaking puppy), resting on amused. I wink at him and he beams, dimples deepening.

“Now Zayn, tell Tommo all about the big, bad interview.”

Zayn’s former guard crumbles and he spills, “I just buggered it all up, Lou! Matt called me and cancelled our date tomorrow night. There’s some rumour that I kicked a puppy, like, what the hell, by the way. Norton cared more about my rumoured promiscuity that he did my album, and _Matt cancelled our date_!” I can feel a stream of wetness pooling in my shoulder. That coupled with the small cracks in his voice, it’s safe to assume that he’s crying and I am so fucking far out of my comfort zone.

Why not crack a joke?

“Hey Zaynie, could you see Swift’s dick through her dress yesterday?” I ask him.

The crying, despite the pure genius of my joke, does not stop. Fuck. I try rubbing his back and bouncing my legs. Eventually I make eye contact with Gary (he looks worried and not at all uncomfortable like I’m feeling). He takes this eye contact as permission and moves to kneel in front of Zayn.

“Hey, don’t cry, it’s alright, yeah? He’s cancelling, sure, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you. I’m sure your Matt had a perfectly reasonable excuse,” he soothes in a way only mothers know how, stroking and cooing at the grown-ass man in my lap.

Zayn’s crying relents and he shifts on my lap to look at Gary. “His tour is starting early and he’s going to Southampton to be with his family before he goes, but that’s not even the problem,” he tells the boy.

Oh relationship problems. I begin to zone out (hearing it all before) and instead focus on the fucking model kneeling before me (oh the images). “Matt’s not exactly out yet, so he won’t take me anywhere. We mostly stay at his place and snog and stuff, but he was going to take me to eat at his favourite restaurant. We set up the plans weeks ago,” I hear Zayn sniffle.

Gary’s whole face (I kid you not) twists into pure sorrow. He reaches over and pulls Zayn from my lap into his arms and they both start bawling. “Erm,” I shift uncomfortably.

“Is he ashamed of me?” Zayn chokes out in Gary’s neck.

Gary replies, “No, you’re way too beautiful to be ashamed of.”

I watch them talk and cry...dumbfounded. I mean, okay sometimes Zayn comes over and mopes about someone or another for an hour or so, and then we shrug it off and play FIFA. Maybe we’ll go to a club when I need to get laid (Zayn has this blessing of having a pool of people to pick from when he’s horny. Too bad he wastes his energies on pining after one person at a time), but we’ve never sat and cried together.

I guess I should feel jealous, but right now I feel relieved and extremely uncomfortable all at the same time. After a while, I leave them to... _their thing_ and fetch Perrie at the front desk. “Do we happen to have tissues?” I ask her.

She wrinkles her nose and replies, “Look, he was really attractive and all, but can’t you keep it in your pants until you get home?”

Appalled, but mostly amused, I respond, “No, I’m not about to have a wank. We’ve got waterworks.”

“Oh,” is all she offers in response, not bothering to apologize as she hands me her box of tissues.

Maybe now I will have a wank, just because. Those thoughts are thrown out of my mind when I return and see that their moment is over and their beaming at each other like old friends. Tossing the box of tissues at Zayn’s head, I return to my seat and pack up Gary’s folder.

“I like him,” Zayn tells me instantly. Gary beams at him, dimples and everything.

“Well, you did do some sort of barbaric ritual with snot and tears...and more snot,” I say, laughing as the box of tissues gets thrown at me.

Zayn scrambles up and back into my lap. “No, I like him for the job, you arsehole.”

Ohhhhhh….great. “He’s great and all, but he’s lacking the experience--”

“Bull shit,” he cuts me off and glares at me. “He can learn.”

“I don’t really have time to--”

“Bull shit, again. We have months before tour starts. I’ll pick up what ever slack there is.”

I stare at my best mate, currently glaring at me from my lap and blowing his nose into a tissue. He’s never this determined and it’s a bit startling. I make the mistake of looking at Gary who’s hanging onto every word of our conversation like it’s a matter of life and death. It’ll suck having to teach someone everything, but Zayn likes him and he’s pretty to look at. “I do owe Gemma…” I start.

Zayn jumps from my lap and throws himself at Gary. “Yes, I told you that you’d get it, didn’t I? Thanks Louis, you won’t regret it!” Zayn yells.

Gary just laughs, his freaking dimples on full display.

***

What is that noise? “Off,” I moan and pull my pillow over my head. Oh, wait. Pillow=bed. Bed=sleep. Sleep=alarm. My alarm is going off. I reach and fumble until I feel the little machine and toss it away from me. Hearing the _crack!_ as it hits the floor is nice, but the alarm itself doesn’t stop. It hurts my head and I move around until I wake up more.

Leaving the bed and kicking the alarm into the wall as I pass (finally stopping it’s wailing), I finally end up in the kitchen to begin the morning routine. Tea. Shower. Tea. Clothes. Tea. Zayn. Tea. Cabbie.

I push calling Zayn off until I’m in the cabbie with my third mug of tea. See, that tea-blood thing would really push for productivity in my morning hours (get on that, science). He answers after the second ring and I ask the usual question, “How many hours?”

“Two.”

“Jesus,” I curse. “Two? Zayn are the pills not working?”

I know the answer. “I don’t want to take them,” he replies.

The idiot. I guess I shouldn’t have expected more, especially with how horrible he was feeling yesterday, but seriously, he only slept two hours? That’s mental.

There was a time when sleep was Zayn’s friend. I remember having troubles getting him out of bed (much of which resulted in many injuries on my end), but year after year Zayn’s sleep schedule started to really get buggered up.

The doctors and I peg it on stress. He’s an international popstar with sold out concerts, a documentary, a whole merchandise line, and no sense of privacy. He has fans dedicated to his every minute, they want to know everything about him. Everything. That kind of shit messes with people. So...Zayn doesn’t really sleep.

Well, Zayn told me, specifically, that he can’t sleep. He tries, laying in bed, waiting for the fatigue, but nothing comes. He usually ends up spray painting the night away, maybe getting a few hours in here and there. It’s the worst when he’s single. I think he tries harder when there’s someone else there. Or...maybe they just fuck him into exhaustion? Who knows? I certainly don’t want to know the specifics.

I push past this subject, not really wanting to fight with him just yet. “We’ve got a photoshoot and a radio show,” I tell him while paying the cabbie and walking into my building.

He grunts to signal that he heard. “Okay, I think that new vocalist guy, Derek? I think he wants to run over some songs this afternoon.”

“Lou, you’re horrible with names,” Zayne chuckles.

“Hey! I know yours, don’t I? And Perrie’s? Do I really need to know anyone else’s?” I defend. I’ve had a problem with names for as long as I remember. Faces are fine, sure, but names...not so much. “Speaking of Perrie, it looks like she’s brewed me up some tea, bless her heart,” I exclaim before hanging up on him.

She doesn’t even look at me, just hands me the mug and continues doing what ever it is that she does. Why do we keep her, again? I take a swig of my tea. Oh right...mmmm...she knows how to make tea.

Gary comes in from the elevator as soon as I finish the last precious drops. “Gary!” I shout when I see him. “I’m teaching you photoshoot rubbish today so hurry along.”

I slip into the office before hearing his response, a bit upset at myself for not getting another cup of tea. I probably have a serious problem. Slipping into my desk chair, I flip my computer on and wait as it loads the desktop. Gary strolls in looking anxious and completely worried.

“You okay?” I ask him.

He shuffles around before hanging his head and saying, “Zayn pushed you into hiring me and I don’t feel like I earned the position.”

“Nonsense!” I boom, waiting for his head to lift before I continue, “Gemma blackmailed me before Zayn even said a word. Now, get over yourself and sit down.”

He doesn’t look any happier, but relents and sits down in the chair in front of my desk. I take the moment to remind myself of how attractive this kid is. He’s wearing another pair of tight trousers with worn out boots, but a black button up this time around. He bends over to rub his temple and I get a glimpse of ink. That sends me on the edge and I nearly lose it before reminding myself that I am his boss and not in a kinky way.

I turn and check my emails (frowning at the ones from management), then I check the news. Nothing new on Zayn except the puppy kicking rumour started by Perez Hilton based on some ambiguous tweet Zayn did about his album. Eventually, I turn off my computer and face the kid. He’s frowning at the ground, still probably feeling guilty about being hired (too good for this kind of business).

Sighing, I get up and cross the room to stand in front of him. After tapping his cheeks, I say, “You know, having connections isn’t bad. That’s how I got my job here. Now start smiling before you depress me. I already had an emotional roller coaster of a day yesterday. I’m too exhausted to have another today.”

He perks up a little, but it doesn’t seem genuine. Fine, I guess I’ll just have to do this the hard way. “Want a tour?” I ask him, waving at the general area of my office.

“Okay…” he replies a little confused.

I nod and grab his sleeve, dragging him to the left area of my office. “This,” I say, sweeping a hand at the area, “is the ‘show off’ corner. I put all my big boy books, awards, and pictures here.” There’s a bookcase that contains these things, but it’s not much to look at. Gary, however, is bending down in what looks like an effort to memorize it all.

“Don’t strain yourself,” I grunt at him, somewhat flattered.

Once he’s finished, I drag him to the next corner. There’s a potted plant and a rubbish bin, but I make the most of it. “This is the ‘creativity’ corner. That’s Archibald,” I point at the cactus, “he’s quite alright if you don’t mind one-sided conversations.”

“Archibald?” Gary questions, staring at the cactus as though it may have the answers to life’s questions.

“Yes,” I answer, “Archibald.”

Gary turns and smiles at me before saying, “Doesn’t talk back, then? I guess you could say he’s a bit of a prick.”

Ouch. I wince. That joke physically hurt me. My reaction doesn’t wound he ego, because he drags me by the sleeve to the wall behind my desk. “And is this the wall of inspiration?” he asks me.

“Ahhh, yes, indeed,” I play along with a nod.

He’s genuinely smiling now and it pulls at my chest, seeing him this happy. “So how does it work? Do you just bang your head against it or do you talk to it before you bang your head? Does it have a name too?”

I pout at him, knowing I probably look like a five year old, because, well, he’s making fun of me! “And what do you mean by that?” I demand.

Gary rolls his eyes and nods to Archibald.

“Apologize to Archie!” I shout and lounge at him.

He yelps in surprise and tries to leap out of the way, but I have the element of surprise on my side and end up tackling him into my desk. “Apologize to Archie!” I repeat and mercilessly tickle him.

He’s giggling and trying to get away, but I’ve got him trapped. He wiggles, slaps at my fingers, and pants between giggles, but I won’t relent until my cactus’s honour is restored. “Fine! Okay, sorry Archibald! Archie! You’re my favourite plant in the whole world,” he gasps, tears rolling down his cheeks.

I drop my hands immediately and move to properly release him when Zayn comes in. Almost as if someone had shoved me into ice water, I realize with a jolt what kind of a position we’re currently in. I’ve had Gary trapped against my desk, his thighs are spread in his efforts to wiggle away and I slotted between them, trapping him further. To top it all off, Gary’s face is red from laughing and his lips are bitten from trying to contain most of his laughter.

Hot damn he’s sexy, but this isn’t the best time, place, or circumstance.

“Erm...photoshoot?” Zayn questions as I push away from Gary and curl up next to Archie, as far away from my new assistant as physically possible.

“Right,” I agree quickly and grab my suit jacket before leaving (the still panting) Gary and Zayn behind to follow after me.

***

Zayn, Gary, and I get to the studio when Zayn finally pulls me aside. “The hell, Tommo,” he says while Gary chats happily to our make-up specialist, Lou.

“As fucking cliched as this sounds: that really wasn’t what it looked like,” I tell my best mate. I’ve become a bit exasperated about the situation already.

Zayn searches my eyes a bit before nodding. “Yeah, yeah okay I believe you.”

“He’s just a kid,” I add.

Zayn rolls his eyes and takes a step toward Lou and her hairspray. “God, you’re only a few years older, give or take.”

“Three years,” I clarify, but he’s not having it.

“Matt and I have a bigger gap. Get your head out of your flat arse, Tommo.”

I watch him walk off before yelling, “Did Zayn Malik, King of Flat Rumps just accuse my trunk of being two-dimensional?!”

I didn’t really think it through and now everyone in the room is staring at us. Zayn’s face is incredibly red and he looks about ready for the floor to swallow him. I imagine I don’t look any better. Gary breaks the silence with his laughter. I look over to see him bending over and clutching his stomach. Everyone else soon laughs and the awkwardness is lifted.

Zayn flips me off, but seems relatively better once he surrenders himself to make-up and wardrobe. I turn in search of the photographer, stopping briefly to yank Gary with me. He trails along, allowing himself to be pulled across the room to the man with a camera in his hand.

“You’re Liam Payne, I assume?” I ask him.

The man turns around and beams at me, his brown eyes crinkle. “You must be Zayn’s agent, yeah?” he asks. He’s a relatively big guy. His hair is gelled and he’s wearing a white shirt that clings to his fit form. He’s quite the attractive man and I’m sure he’s about my age.

I nod. “If you don’t mind, could you run me and Zayn,” I point back to where Lou’s currently hairspraying Zayn’s face off, “through your idea for this magazine cover?” I ask him politely. Hey, nobody can tell me that I don’t know how to do my job in a professional manner.

“Oh right,” he ducks out from under his camera and follows me to our superstar with the actual two-dimensional rump. Gary just follows us, smile never leaving his face.

Zayn looks up at our arrival and frowns, probably about to tell me to fuck off, but then he sees Liam and his eyes widen. Huh...that’s new. “Hello Mr. Malik, I’m Liam Payne, your photographer,” Liam-the-fucking-gentleman-Payne holds his hand out for Zayn to shake. Zayn grabs onto it (a bit greedy, if you ask me) and smiles at Liam.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

They let go of their hands and I see a change in Liam’s face. A smirk plays on my lips as he fumbles to leave, muttering about equipment and stuff while Zayn tries to discreetly stare at his arse in the mirror. I turn from the scene, unable to control the laughter falling from my lips. Gary raises his eyebrows questioningly at me. “What’s so funny?” he whispers, following me out into the corridor.

“Look Gary, do you know much about Zayn’s fandom?” I ask the kid.

He looks fully confused so I continue without much of a pause. “There’s this thing that Zayn’s fans call the ‘Malik Effect’ where if you stare into Zayn’s eyes for four seconds, you fall deeply in love with him.” I don’t even attempt to hide my snorting at this tidbit of fandom logic.

Gary shakes his head. “Yeah, but why is that funny now?”

“Looks like Zayn’s gained a fanboy named Liam,” I smile.

Gary shares the smile for a while and we stand in the corridor with stupid little smiles on our faces before Gary says, “Hey, I’ve kind of noticed that you’ve been calling me--”

The fire alarm goes off and the sprinklers above our heads drench us in a shower of water. I turn away from Gary and yank open the studio doors. Zayn is in the middle of the room, soaked with a fag hanging limp from his mouth.

***

We rescheduled the shoot and Zayn offered to pay for the damages out of his own pocket, but Liam refused even though it was Zayn who so stupidly tried to smoke his cigarette inside instead of taking his lazy ass outside. Fortunately, the magazine is willing to wait for the photos, so everything works out.

“I’m the worst!” Zayn hisses in the limo on our way to the radio station. He’s bent over himself, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. Lou managed to re-style his hair, so not all is lost.

“Hey…” Gary immediately switches seats so that he’s right up next to Zayn, stroking his back comfortingly. “Don’t say that. We just had a little plumbing problem. Nothing irreplaceable was damaged.”

“Yeah, but I looked like a tosser! Why didn’t I just go outside?” Zayn moans into his hands.

I lounge back into my seat, going through twitter on my phone. #Zaynkissespuppies is actually trending right now as a way to reprimand Perez’s rumour. The feed consists of teenage girls posting pictures of Zayn with different dogs. Nothing all that exciting, but it cheers me up all the same. He really does have some great fans. “You kind of looked like a tosser,” I tell Zayn truthfully.

I get a hard kick to my shin which causes me to drop my phone and clutch it like a wounded animal. Gary glares at me before returning to comforting Zayn with whispered words and compliments. I hiss in pain a bit before retrieving my phone and moving to the seat as far away from violent Gary as I can.

By the time we reach the station, Zayn is perky and excited for the interview. Him and Gary chat about music (mostly about Ed Sheeran, a mutual friend) and then a bit about Zayn’s career and ambitions. When we pull up to the station, a crowd awaits us with posters and cameras. We wait for the security team to round the car before getting out. They stick to Zayn and follow him as he autographs and takes pictures a bit before going inside. Gary and I don’t wait and get inside to wait for him.

Harry’s hair has dried since the photoshoot incident and it’s actually curling against itself without the help of hair products. It looks a bit like a bird’s nest, but in a cute way (as silly and painfully pathetic as that sounds). I don’t want to even think about what my hair looks like without the quiff, so I don’t. Instead, I reach over and play with Gary’s. He smiles and bends more towards me to give me more access.

Eventually, I release his curls  to do my job (gasp) and chat with the radio dj. Gary stands by and watches silently. Soon Zayn joins us and we leave them to it to wait outside. “So baby Styles, what’s it like living in your older sister’s shadow?” I ask Gary offhandedly while trying to work a vending machine.

“Eh, ‘bout the same as it’s been my whole life. Can’t complain,” he replies. He reaches over and knocks the machine. The can of soda finally tumbles out. I open it and take a swig before passing it to Gary. He doesn’t think twice before taking his own swig and passing it to me.

“Gemma was great. I’m glad she was there to help out. Can’t say that I’m not a bit disappointed she didn’t introduce her baby brother to me sooner though. I think we could’ve been good mates.”

Gary shrugs. “We can still be good mates.”

I don’t really have a response for this, so I reach over a tug at a lock of his hair. “Curley,” I mumble.

He chuckles at the nickname. “That’s what my roommate, Niall calls me,” he says simply.

“Tell Niall that he and I must be soulmates,” I reply. I pull my phone from my pocket and check my email, then twitter. #malikeffect is trending again and I click on the dash to inspect the damage. Apparently the interviewer sounds like he’s already fallen in love with Zayn, and the fans on twitter are politely teasing him for it.

I finish off the can with a quick tilt of the head and hand it to Gary. “Could you recycle this for me, Gar?” I drop the ‘y’ on his name because I’m lazy.

When he doesn’t respond I repeat myself, “Gar? Gary? Gary Styles?”

He finally looks over from watching the interview. He looks confused and I have to force myself not to roll my eyes at him. “Never mind, I got it,” I explain and toss the can into the bin. I turn my phone off after that and really pay attention to the interview.

We can’t really tell what’s being asked, because the room is soundproof. We could go into the room adjacent and listen, but I wasn’t really in the mood to listen to “So are you single?” “What kinds of things are you looking for in a girl?” “Do you kiss on the first date?” It’s all a bit boring after a while.

Watching the interview now, I can see what twitter was complaining about. The interviewer is leaning in and just drinking every word Zayn says, which isn’t a lot because he’s quite soft-spoken in interviews. “Malik effect?” Gary asks after a while.

  
I nod. “Malik Effect.”


	2. Wingman

The next two weeks goes by smoothly. Gary begins handling his own responsibilities that I continually add on to. My workload lightens and I feel good. Like, I’m getting things done, but I’m also not stressed. Zayn just adores Gary, though. They both share a love of romance and soulmates, and I wouldn’t even be a little surprised if I found them watching romantic comedies together. I’m sure they already have, to be completely honest. There’s also an unspoken agreement that any and all relationship problems that Zayn finds himself having with Matt are talked about (and not all that rarely cried over) with Gary. I handle the fun side of Zayn that likes a good penis/arse joke. All in all, Gary and I make a great team.

So, when the weekend starts to creep on us, I stop feeling anxious and stressed. Instead I’m excited like I was when Gemma was here with me. It is this excitement and lack of stress (not at all the tattooed collar bones of a certain assistant) that I find myself announcing, “I need to get laid!” to Gary, Perrie, and Zayn.

Perrie immediately groans and backs out of the conversation announcing that she’s going to take a lunch break (“too many horny boys around here”). Gary just smiles like he always does while Zayn grunts in agreement, “Boys night out!”

Finally Gary speaks up, “That sounds like a great idea. We could invite my roommate and the photographer from yesterday.” He pointedly winks at me with this last part.

The photoshoot went by really well, despite Zayn’s many apologies that even started to bother Liam. The magazine’s planning to print the article next week and I just know all the fans will go crazy over the photos. Gary discreetly went about getting Liam’s number just for an occasion like this. He’s a bit of a sap like that.

Which leads us to Matt. Matt sucks. Nobody likes Matt. Even little interns skirting around the photocopier know better than to even think of his name. Despite his obvious attraction for Liam the gentleman photographer, Zayn is still hopelessly pining for Matt. Which would be fine if Matt didn’t act as if Zayn was his dirty little secret. I don’t want to out anyone, but it’s a low blow for Zayn to be dragged along like this.

Dinner date at a nice Italian place? Sorry, I have a gig that night. Shopping in a venue? Whoops, forgot about an autograph session. Walk through a park? I’m allergic to the air.

Excuse after excuse and I really think it’s making Zayn’s sleeping thing worse. Even the pills aren’t working anymore. This is why I think Zayn is agreeing to going out so quickly (instead of waiting for a call from Matt and staying in to mope about his house when he doesn’t call), to have an excuse to not sleep instead of just staring at his ceiling and feeling like a freak when sleep never comes. Gary makes the calls and we plan to meet up at some weird sounding club that Zayn likes.

The rest of the work day goes by without too many problems (an intern does end up breaking our kettle which I would have lost my head over if Gary wasn’t there to run and purchase a new one) and it’s half an hour until I’m supposed to meet up with the gang when I glare down at my clothes as though they have offended me personally.

“Maggie, what should I wear?” Unfortunately, my fern on the bedside table doesn’t reply, which doesn’t help me one bit. Eventually I decide on a red jumper, some fitted trousers rolled up to the ankle, and a blazer to add a bit of class. I know I’ll lose the jacket once I get there and I’ll be able to show off my own sets of tattoos.

I leave the house a little late and end up being the last of our group to show up to the club. Gary calls me over as soon as he sees me and does an exaggerated look up and down my body. He smiles a toothy little smile and I punch his arm. A blonde boy with a loud laugh cheers at our exchange and I turn to him. “You must be Niall,” I tell him.

“That’s me! Niall Horan! You are most definitely Louis Tomlinson,” Niall replies looking pointedly at our little mutual friend still rubbing his arm where I punched him.

“Good! Glad to know little Curly here doesn’t forget about me when he goes home,” I say and turn to get myself a drink.

I nearly didn’t hear Niall say, “Oh yeah, he _definitely_ doesn’t forget about you.”

I come back with a coke and rum after a nice talk to a bloke next to the bar. He had taken a liking to my tic-tac-toe tattoo on my forearm and we were planning on having something of a tic-tac-toe match later in the evening when his friends get to the club. “One down, seven to go, Tommo,” Zayn says to me the second I return.

I wink at him before sitting next to Gary. Zayn looks like shit, to be completely honest. This morning he said that he got four hours, but now I’m starting to think that he’s been lying lately. His bags underneath his eyes never used to be this pronounced.

“What does that mean?” Liam asks. He’s wearing a tight gray shirt with black slacks and he’s claimed the only seat next to Zayn which Zayn doesn’t seem to be complaining about.

“We’ve got something of a game going on,” I reply to Liam’s question. “The record amount of numbers I’ve gotten in a night is seven, but I’m hoping to beat that out tonight.”

Zayn laughs at that statement. “You’ve got your tats out and everything,” he says while pointing at the stick figure skating on my bicep.

Niall looks positively elated by the game and asks if he can play too. “Sure,” I tell him, a bit wary of the amount of enthusiasm that rolls off him. “You can be my wingman?” I ask.

He nods greedily and begins searching the club for victims before pausing and turning back. “Blokes or birds?” he asks me.

Zayn coughs back a laugh and I blush. “Er...blokes...preferably,” I stammer at him.

He shrugs and goes back to scouting.

Gary, who’s gone completely silent, is playing with the condensation on his glass. I let myself steal a longer glance at him. He’s got his tightest pair of black trousers on with a black shirt, the sleeves are rolled up a bit and tacked up with what looks like bobby pins. His hair is up in his usual quiff, but his dimples aren’t out on display. That just can’t do.

I reach over and pull on a curly tendril of hair by his ears (left on touched by hair product). “Hey Curly, sorry I’m late. Got in a bit of an argument with Maggie over rent,” I say, waiting for the question I know he’s going to ask.

He humours me with a quick smile and asks, “Who’s Maggie?”

“My fern on my bedside table,” I reply, winking.

His whole face flushes and he bends over the table to laugh. My jokes or teasings are never as funny as Gary thinks they are. Part of me thinks he’s just sucking up to his boss by laughing at anything remotely funny, but it looks so genuine that it couldn’t be that. He must really just have an awful sense of humour.

“Oh, Curly,” Niall turns around and grabs Gary’s arm. “I’ve got just your type over by the DJ. You see him?” Niall points over the dancefloor and Gary grins.

Something tugs at my stomach that I recognize as jealousy, but I let it go. Gary works for me. He’s just a pretty boy that works for me. That doesn’t stop me from complaining. “Niall! You’re supposed to be _my_ wingman. It’s not like Gary even needs help!” I whine and swat at my newly acquired Irish friend.

“Gary?” Niall questions, but Gary shuts him up with a look. I don’t say anything because I get distracted by Zayn and Liam who have broken away from our conversation and are making cute little faces at each other. It’s sickening, yet endearing and I can’t look away.

The sure sound of Zayn’s ringtone goes off suddenly and he breaks away to answer it. His face lights up when he sees the caller ID and I want to scream. It’s Matt, I just know it is. Zayn leaves to answer the call and Liam looks after him fondly while Niall searches the crowd like the semi-loyal wingman he is.

“Oh, what do you think of big and muscled?” Niall asks me eventually.

Gary and I have been playing a game of “who can make the biggest mess on the table” while I wait for the Irish kid to pick someone out. I sigh and finish the last of my drink. “It doesn’t really matter, Niall. The point of the game is that I get multiple numbers. They don’t necessarily have to be my type, but it does help if they swing my way,” I explain. He’s really doing a thorough job, which is boring for me, so I get up to get another drink.

Niall hops up quickly and pushes me down by the shoulders. “Nope, you stay here and I’ll get you that drink, mate. I’m the wingman here, aren’t I?” he says, walking to the bar before I can protest.

Well, who am I to pass up free drinks? Gary asks me about my family when Niall comes back with two coke and rums and hands them to me before turning back and scanning the crowd. “I’ve got four sisters, all of them menaces by the way, and a mum,” I reply. A familiar pinch at my eyes reminds me of how much I miss my family in Doncaster. The last time I visited was for the twins’ birthday party and that was a few months ago.

Gary begs for pictures and I let him burn through the photo album I have on my phone.

“What is your type then?” Niall asks me after a little while.

I scrunch my face and run a hand down my forearm where my compass tattoo is inked. “I suppose I like taller guys with a more lengthy build,” I reply with a shrug. It’s silly, but I start to think of Gary. He’s cooing at a picture of Lottie playing footie. What if Gary wasn’t working for me and we met for the first time tonight, I would have probably chatted him up. The scene of it kind of reels in my mind and I find myself itching for it. I quench the itching with more alcohol.

“Where’s Zayn?” Liam asks looking around hopelessly for him. It has been a while since he took the call.

I saw him walk out the back way to answer his mobile, so he can’t have been spotted by a mass of girls ready to devour him (as funny as that illustration is). “I’ll go check up on him,” I say getting up. Niall looks over and quickly pushes me down again.

“Er, no let Liam do it. Come on, Lou. Young love and all?” Niall stammers.

Liam takes the initiative and does go for Zayn, but that doesn’t keep me from feeling a bit buggered by the whole thing. It’s official, Niall is the worst wingman ever. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying to help anymore. He’s just staring off into space with his back to Gary and me.

Knowing this is the only excuse that will work, I say, “Well I’ve got to take a wee, be back.” and leave before he can even jump up to stop me. After a quick stop to the loo (the excuse reminded me of the fact that I really did have to wee), I go back into the back alley to find Zayn.

It doesn’t take long after I hear and follow the sound of sniffling. Zayn’s pressed against a wall, curled up with his chin resting on his knees. I don’t hesitate to sit next to him and pull him in for a cuddle. He rests his head on my shoulder and says, “Cancelled again.”

I nod and sit with him as he cries it out. Too tired, too stressed, and too heartbroken, Zayn eventually cries himself to sleep on my shoulder. I pull out his phone and text Liam (who I saw putting his number in Zayn’s phone, the freaking love sick children). He finds us like that and lifts Zayn carefully in his arms.

“Let’s get him home,” I sigh.

Liam shakes his head. “No, I’ve got this. Niall is worried sick in there. Thinks you have some kind of bladder problem.”

“Worst wingman ever,” I whine.

Liam grins. “Maybe for you.”

I huff and ignore his cryptic message opting for explaining how to get to Zayn’s flat and exchanging numbers so that Liam can give me updates. I watch Liam get into the cabbie (awkwardly with Zayn’s dead weight) and wave before heading back in to deal with my wingman.

Niall beams as soon as he sees me. Gary’s looks incredibly worried until he also catches my eye. I sigh and bounce a bit before joining them. “Found Zayn,” I tell them.

“What happened?” Niall asks.

Gary answers, “Matt.”

“How do you know that?” I genuinely ask him.

His eyebrows shoot up and he smiles a bit before answering, “You get this incredibly upset look on your face when ever anybody even mentions his name.”

Oh, well, I find myself liking the fact that Gary knew this detail about myself, despite how creepy it is. Well, I guess it’s not that creepy considering that we do work together. I poke one of his dimples in response, which makes Gary smile bigger.

“They’re fine now, right?” he asks.

I nod and turn away from him. We’ve gotten considerably closer in that short interaction, and I found myself nearly pulling forward and kissing one of his freaking dimples. “Have anybody for me yet, Niall?” I ask the blonde who had turned away from us.

He looks back, confused. “Oh? Oh!! Yeah, yeah. Tall and lanky or whatever. On it, Lou,” he answers and looks back to the dancefloor.

I frown at his back. “Didn’t Niall point out a bloke for you to seduce?” I ask dimpleface.

He shrugs. “Wasn’t my type.”

“That settles it. Niall, you are the worst wingman in the _history_ of wingmen!” I announce and pull out of the table, snatching my phone from Gary’s clutches.

Niall looks back and Gary watches with a sad smile as I throw my jacket on. “You’re more of a cockblock, if anything,” I continue to complain.

“Cockblock?” Niall repeats. “I didn’t jump in the way of any bloke coming! I just couldn’t find one your type.”

“Cockblock by omission,” I reply smoothly. “By not letting me leave your side, I wasn’t able to talk to anybody, hence me going home massively horny.”

He looks like he’s going to say something else so I cut him off and walk away. On my way out, I run into tic-tac-toe guy and he’s more than eager to take me home.

***

I wake up with a pinching headache, sticky and incredibly disgusted by whoever is breathing on my upper arm. I look down and nearly groan at the leftover cum on my legs and stomach. I guess we didn’t bother to clean up last night, probably opting to sleep. It still grosses me out and I don’t bother to walk around quietly as I shove clothes on and storm out of the flat.

As I wait for a cabbie, I check my email and twitter on my phone. Nothing really newsworthy happening, although some people have taken to noticing Gary’s new role in the group. People were used to me, but Gary’s different. He’s pretty and he’s young. The fans are discussing whether or not him and Zayn have a secret relationship what with all their cuddling and such. Nope, they just don’t know that both Gary and Zayn are freakishly handsy.

Once I get home and shower for an hour or two (still disgusted) and make my way to the office. No one else usually works Saturday, which is fine, really. I just do the basic every day things that include paperwork and making a few calls before I head back home to watch X-Factor (I’ve become even more addicted to that show now that I’ve seen Zayn make it so big).

Today I just want to get in and get out to take another long shower (still very much disgusted). In my efforts to run to my office, I end up slamming into someone’s back and sending the guy flying into Perrie’s desk. He knocks over her cup of pens and says, “Oops.”

Gary? What’s he doing here? Instead of being the normal human that I am, I get distracted by his hair (pulled back by a headband. Seriously, why the hell is that sexy?!) and manage a stammered, “Hi.”

He blushes and hands me a mug of tea that was sitting on the part of Perrie’s desk that he wasn’t slammed into. “Sorry about last night. It was supposed to be fun, but...well, it wasn’t good at all, was it?” he stammers a bit, but finishes with a big smile.

I poke his dimples and agree. “Er, yeah. I think we should just stick to playing FIFA in Zayn’s massive entertainment center.”

We smile at each other a bit. He ducks his head and asks, “So...after you left...had a good time?”

I blink in surprise. I nearly forgot that I had something of a sexual conquest. It wasn’t bad, but I don’t remember it being particularly good and that in itself makes me feel hollow and disgusting. Gary’s still watching and waiting for an answer so I shove his shoulder and make my way to the office.

“Wotcher, Archie!” I call into my office and turn the lights on to see a little note hanging off one of his needles. “What’s this then?” I ask myself and inspect my introverted potted friend.

I pull the note off and read _Lou, you’ve got the best arse in London_. There’s rustling behind me and I turn to see Gary flipping through some files in his hands, trying to ignore me. That won’t do. “Hey Gar, Archie’s chatting me up!” I tell him and walk over to my desk. Flipping the switch on my computer, I lean back and wait for the desktop to load. I discreetly place the note in my desk drawer.

I hear a sigh of relief and look over to see Gary sink into the chair in front of my desk. He reaches up to run a hand through his hair and his fucking shirt rides up. That is an unreliable shirt. He should burn it, actually. That’s a great idea! Burn it now and just go around shirtless and smelling all musky. Wait, that’s not where those thoughts were supposed to go.

I look back at the computer and get to work. Easier said than done, of course. Especially now that I’m supporting a semi in my trousers. It’s a bit of a tricky situation because a) my body (er, cock) is itching for some friction and b) any little movement gives my body (*cough* cock *cough*) that friction making me a bit harder and it doesn’t help that c) Gary is watching me work like it’s the most entertaining thing in the world. All in all, I decide to push work off until Sunday and hop up.

Gary follows the action with raised eyebrows. “You’re finished?” he asks.

“Not in the mood,” I supply and it’s not a lie. I just want to go home and have a nice long wank in the shower.

He frowns at that, but follows my lead and grabs his jacket. “I don’t want to intrude,” Gary starts and suddenly I get the impression that I won’t get that much needed alone time with my hand. “but Niall took a girl home last night and I don’t really want to go home to that. You want to grab something to eat?”

“Worst wingman ever,” I repeat.

He flushes a bit at this. “Nah, he’s really not bad at all.”

“Are you kidding me?” I snap.

He just shrugs with a little smile. I roll my eyes. “Okay, how about we just go to my place and watch stupid movies until x-factor, yeah?” If I’m going to be left with the most beautiful man I’ve ever met while horny and irritable, I’m doing it on my own terms.

Gary’s whole body just perks up and he beams like a five year old at Christmas. “Yeah, that sounds really brilliant, actually.” He reaches over and kisses my cheek before turning around and running to the elevator. “Let’s go, Lou! Stupid movies, come on!”

What the hell have I gotten myself into? I break from my daze and follow the kid out of the building.

***

_Brrrriiiinnnnngggg!_ I curse loudly and scramble to turn off the monstrosity that is the new alarm clock I purchased after smashing the last one with my least favourite tea mug. I grab this new alarm and chuck it at the wall. I was smart when I purchased it, because it just bounces off and continues it’s screeching like the glorified banshee that it is.

I pull the pillow over my face to try and drown it out, but give up and stumble out of bed to inspect it. Where is the off button? We can put a man on the moon, but we can’t put obvious off buttons on alarm clocks? Fuck it. I carry the alarm clock to my bathroom, fill the bath tub with water, and drop it in. The dying sound it makes when it dips in the water is the most glorifying sound of my life and I leave the water grave behind to make tea.

Tripping into the kitchen, I pause and glare at someone’s back. I don’t remember shagging last night...the fuzzy details come in slowly until Gary turns around and beams at me. I nearly hiss at him. Of fucking course he’s a morning person. We ended up watching movies and x-factor until two in the morning, so I offered him my sofa. Now he’s here making me tea like I imagine in all of my wet dreams.

“Hey Lou, sleep well?” Gary asks.

“Where’s your shirt?” I ask him bluntly. Better he knows now that I don’t do mornings rather than later when we’re touring with Zayn.

He blushes and scratches at the butterfly tattoo on the middle of his chest (who is this guy?). “Erm, I don’t really sleep well with clothes on,” he explains, handing me tea and shuffling to the front room to pull his shirt on.

It takes me a minute to let that sink in. In fact, I’ve finished my second cup of tea, climbed into my sofa to watch the morning news when the gears in my head line up. Gary’s in my bathroom when I shout, “YOU SLEPT ON MY SOFA NAKED?!”

He strolls back into my front room with a puzzled look on his face. “Did you know that there’s an alarm clock in your bath tub?” he asks.

“No! Wait, yes, but--you slept in my sofa naked?” I choke out, arms waving around and eyes bugging.

He just shrugs and pulls out his phone. I’m not sure whether I’m more turned on or horrified by this (turned on, of course. I’m only human), so I stare at him until he finally looks up from his phone. “Hey Lou, #malikeffect is trending again.”

“Really?” I ask and pull my own phone out of my trousers. It’s weird because Zayn hasn’t been out in public since the club, but sure enough, his fans are trending about him. It doesn’t take long to track down exactly why it’s trending.

“Shit,” Gary curses.

Matt confessed that he and Zayn have been dating on national television. It took like two seconds for the national part to turn international and even the Australian fans are freaking out. I just stare at my phone in shock while Gary moves into action. He first snatches my phone and taps at it before putting it against my ear. I grab it and listen to the ringing while he taps at his own phone.

“Vas ‘appening?” a tired Zayn answers. His voice is thick and I realize that I woke him up. I haven’t had this kind of situation in years and it breaks me from my daze.

“You’ve got yourself a boyfriend, that’s what’s happening,” I tell him and jump up from the sofa. “Office in fifteen, Malik. Don’t answer your phone if management tries to call, I’m not in the mood to deal with those bananas.” I hang up the phone and call Simon while I race to my room to change my clothes.

After Simon, I get a hold of Matt’s agent, pull on some trainers and push Gary out the door. We’re still on the phone when we get to the building and I realize faintly that it’s Sunday and Perrie won’t be in. Gary must have realized this sooner, because he’s already sprinting to the breakroom to make us all tea. Bless him.

The rarely used conference room fills up after a half hour with agents from both music stars, but I duck into my office to talk to Zayn. He just looks so confused. Gary walks over and cuddles him without question and I move to sit on top of my desk. “What’s going on, guys?” he asks underneath Gary’s arms.

“Matt outed himself in his interview yesterday night and he brought you into the chaos,” I explain slowly, watching Zayn’s confusion unravel.

I hop off my desk and pull up the interview on my computer while Gary soothes our popstar. “Look at the bright side,” I try to joke while I wait for things to load, “At least people will stop thinking you and Curly are a thing.”

“I don’t care about that,” Zayn says while rolling his eyes at me.

Gary coos at him, “Of course not, babe. Louis’s just trying to cheer you up in his own way.”

I frown at him, but my desktop loads, so I turn my attention away and pull up the interview. We spend the next fifteen minutes watching Matt talk about his “sexual evolution” that lead him to our Zayn (currently cuddling into Gary with small smile on his face). When it finishes, I say, “So you know management’s going to push you two for a relationship.”

Zayn nods. “Yeah, I know. I don’t mind.”

I’m about to remind him of all the cancelled dates and nights crying with Gary, but Gary interrupts, “Are you sure that’s what you want?” he asks Zayn.

Zayn nods firmly and pulls away. “Yeah, yeah I want it. It’s Matt, of course I do.”

“Okay then, let’s go tell them,” Gary concludes and the two move to leave the room, pausing to wait for me.

I’m currently frowning at the seat they got out of because I’m ready to punch someone. It’s Matt! This is the guy who one minute cuddles and tickles Zayn and then the next ignores him for two weeks. This isn’t good, this is bad. Like, beyond alarm clock bad. I’m pretty sure this is close to satanic.

“Hey, you okay?” Gary asks at the threshold.

I take in a big gulp of air and let it out slowly before getting up from my desk. I don’t look at Gary as I shoulder past for the conference room. It’s full of people who are either on their phone or chatting with each other. Zayn has taken a seat next to Simon and I move to sit next to him. Gary follows quietly taking a seat next to me.

A man with thick, dark hair and bushy eyebrows stands up near the front of the table and clears his throat. “All right, welcome everyone. So our client, Matt Cardle did an unexpected, unplanned, and, frankly, unwelcomed thing last night.” voices whisper their agreements, “But what’s done is done. We’ve gone and written a contract for Mr. Malik and Cardle. It can be renewed every two months and stopped whenever, but this allows us some sort of control with what you say in interviews and social media, for sanity’s sake.”

The man looks so stressed and tired, he must have been up all night trying to work the thing out. One of our lawyers retrieves the contract and reads the ten-pages carefully. This part might take some time, but no one says or moves from their places. All eyes are on the man.

“Where’s Matt?” Zayn asks, causing a few people to jump in surprise.

Matt’s agent answers, “He’s already signed the contract, Zayn. I’m sure he’s with his family right now. It’s not an easy thing he did last night.”

Wait. Woah woah woah woah woah woah...hold up. He’s playing...the victim?! He didn’t have to say anything! I glare at the man, but Zayn doesn’t seem upset. Why isn’t he upset? Why is he going through with this? Where’s my tea?! The lawyer finishes reviewing the contract and Zayn excuses himself to talk to him about the details.

Simon turns to me and pats my shoulder. “Well, Tommo, looks like we’ve got our work cut out for a little while. I’m going to head out, but call me when you get into your office tomorrow,” he stands up and pauses at Gary. “You must be the new assistant. Welcome aboard. Oh, don’t let Louis intimidate you too much. He’s all bark and no bite.”

I gawk after Simon, but turn to Gary to whisper, “Don’t listen to him, I very much bite.”

He pales and coughs. I watch him in confusion. I was sort of expecting him to laugh, so I decide to clarify with a, “That was a joke, Gary. I’m not going to bite you, Jesus. That’s cannibalism or something.”

He smiles, but shifts in his seat, avoiding eye contact. Markus from the social media department catches my attention and walks over. We talk about the new workload of looking over two celebrities and I feel tired just thinking about all the phone calls I’ll have to make every day. I’m going to have to get help, because I can’t train Gary and attempt to get everything handled by myself. Paperwork is going to be shit.

Zayn comes back with the lawyer and shakes hands with a few people. He gets his own copy of the contract and people start to leave, probably going to go home and have a proper Sunday. Zayn walks over and sneaks into my arms (like the cuddler he and Gary are). “Well look who has a boyfriend,” I tease, deciding to leave my feelings to myself. Zayn’s stressed enough as it is.

“First contract I’ve had to sign in a while,” he remarks lightly.

I squeeze his shoulders and lead him to my office for some peace and quiet. Zayn breaks away and steals some of my candy in my desk while I make a few calls on the office phone to interns and such. Maybe I should just send out a memo that says, “Hey: Remember that Dickhead No One Likes? Well Now We All Have to Pretend Like the Sun Shines Out of His Arse.”

I almost decide to actually write that memo when Zayn asks, “Why is there a post-it note on your cactus?”

“ARCHIE!” I shout and hang up mid-sentence. I wheel my chair to my potted friend and pull the note off.

“What’s it say, Lou?” Zayn asks me, mouth full of chocolate.

Erm. Well this can’t be right. “I think Archie just hit on me…?” I reply.

  
Zayn grumbles, but crosses the room and yanks the note from my hand. “I hope you’re happy,” he reads. “P.S. I don’t mind biting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expect to get updates up every 3-5 days :D

**Author's Note:**

> It's cliche to do, but I'm going to mention that this is my first work submitted on this site. Also, please don't start talking to plants in hopes that the guy you fancy will take a liking to you.


End file.
